The Boy Who Lived is Dead
by Benevolent Eyes
Summary: "The light side has prevailed. Voldemort has finally been defeated." The words should have been positive. They should have made the people in the Great Hall sigh with relief and joy. But they didn't.


The Boy Who Lived is Dead  
  
"The light side has prevailed. Voldemort has finally been defeated."  
  
The words should have been positive. They should have made the people gathered in the Great Hall sigh with relief and joy. But they didn't; a collective sob could be heard as students and parents alike mourned over the losses that should not have been.  
  
Professor Dumbledore stood at the front of the room, gazing out at the crowd of people with sad azure eyes. "Yes, the light side has finally defeated Voldemort and his followers. This should be a happy time for rejoicing, but none of us can bring ourselves to have a celebratory party when many of our loved ones lie dead in the streets or are still missing. We should be happy, but we are not."  
  
Hermione Granger could not control her tears any longer; the clear drops flooded out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, leaving a white path in her makeup. Her body was racked with uncontrolled sobs and she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. At once, Ron, Molly, Arthur, and Percy Weasley, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and Professor McGonagall were at her side. Professor Dumbledore gave her a pitying look before addressing the others, once again.  
  
"Hundreds and hundreds of brave, valiant witches and wizards gave their lives for this cause, whether it be in the recent war or previous wars that we have not won. Some of these witches and wizards were not even fully trained yet, but were still attending school at the time of Voldemort's first attack on Hogwarts."  
  
The words left Dumbledore's mouth and reached Hermione's ears, sending her into another sobbing spasm. She reached blindly for a hand, and finding Ron's, she grasped it tightly. Mrs. Granger, kneeling by her side, patted her seventeen-year-old daughter on the back.  
  
Hermione could remember so clearly the day that Voldemort launched an attack on Hogwarts. It had started out to be a beautiful, carefree Saturday morning. Hermione and Harry had been content to just stay wrapped up in each other's arms all day, sitting in the common room on the comfortable couch. It was two o'clock when Professor McGonagall rushed in, pale faced, and announced that Death Eaters had just rampaged Diagon Alley and had made plans to do the same to Hogwarts very, very soon.  
  
She could hear the panicked cries of first years, the shouts of surprise of second and third years, the stampeding noise as each fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years ran to their girlfriends or boyfriends. She could feel the seething anger of Harry and his immediate decision that he would be helping. And despite Hermione's anguished protests, he would not change his mind.  
  
"Among the dead are Professor Severus Snape, Professor Diantha Vector, Madam Poppy Pomfrey, Narcissa Calypso Malfoy, Virginia Nichole Weasley --" (The present members of the Weasley family and Hermione bowed their heads.) "--Parvati Anne Patil, and Harry James Potter."  
  
Hermione transformed into a raging maniac. She jumped to her feet, brown hair in a wild disarray, chocolate eyes blazing with some unidentifiable emotion, face pale, and screamed, in a very unHermioneish voice, "NO! He's NOT DEAD!" Then she flew from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Everyone in the Hall stared after her, pity evident on their troubled features.  
  
Mrs. Granger started to go after her daughter, but Ron caught her arm. "I will, ma'am," he said softly. "I knew Harry, too." Once Mrs. Granger nodded her consent, Ron ran from the room and down the corridor to the place he knew was special to Harry and Hermione... the place they had first kissed, in the trophy room.  
  
Sure enough, when Ron pushed the door open, Hermione was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face being hidden by her knees, and her hair spilling over her bare legs.  
  
"Hermione," Ron said gently.  
  
She looked up, her eyes bloodshot and her face more pale than usual. "It's so hard, Ron," she whispered as he sat down beside of her and took her hand. "I don't think I can live without him. I loved him so damn much, and I still do!"  
  
Ron smiled sympathetically. He knew that his two best friends had made plans to be married sometime after seventh year came to and end and start a family. It had been Harry's dream to be a father, and having Hermione be the mother made his dreams so much sweeter... that was something Harry had told Ron many times before.  
  
"I know that it's hard, and I know how much you loved him. Hell, I loved him like my brother and I want him back on this earth as well. He didn't deserve to die so young. Then again, neither did Ginny."  
  
Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh gods, Ron. You must think I'm such a bitch, going on and on about Harry but not even stopping to think or ask about Ginny!" Her eyes clouded over as she continued apologizing profusely. She didn't stop even when Ron placed a hand on her arm. "I'm terribly sorry!"  
  
"It's okay," Ron told her, hugging her tightly. "It's perfectly okay, I swear."  
  
She nodded miserably and allowed Ron to wipe her tears from her face with his thumb. "I just miss him... oh, Ron, I miss him so much it hurts."  
  
  
  
The cool wind whipped around Hermione, en-casing her in something she didn't want to be true. She wanted to believe that, at any second, the tall, messy black-haired, green-eyed boy whom she loved so much it was inconceivable to others, would walk his lengthy gate across the graveyard to stand beside her. But if he did, he'd be watching his own burial, watching the people crying for him... Hermione told herself, looking around at the turnout of people.  
  
The turnout was immense; of all the funerals of the lost ones, Harry Potter's had the greatest amount of attendees. Even Hermione had admitted that people should have cared more about the others funerals instead of just Harry's, just because he was the ill-fated "hero" of the war.  
  
The day was a fitting day for the Boy Who Lived's funeral: dreary. The sky was not bright and azure, but gray and clouded. The sun was not out, but was hiding behind gray. It was not a warm day during which a young child could frolic out in the yard, but a chilly day during which a light precipitation drizzled from the sky. It was almost like nature was casting a melancholic look just for the funeral.  
  
She swallowed as his casket, laden with flowers of all kinds, was lowered into the ground. She fought back the tears until Professor Dumbledore began to speak, and that's when, once again, her tears flowed freely.  
  
"Harry Potter, possibly the most famous name of any male in the wizarding world, was seventeen years old, not even a fully-trained wizard. Yet he was still expected to be able to defeat a very powerful dark wizard. He has finally defeated Voldemort, but he has fallen while doing so; while protecting a world he knew absolutely nothing about until he was eleven, he died. In no sense at all was he a reluctant hero. He was always ready and willing to do whatever it took to make Voldemort finally die, to end the suffering of innocent peoples. And he gave his young life doing this. For that, each and every one of you should be eternally grateful. Harry Potter will live on forever in our hearts and souls as the selfless, but doomed, young man with that... blasted... lighting-bolt shaped scar."  
  
The casket hit the ground and, sadly, people turned to walk away from the site. Before Ron and she left, however, Hermione walked over to the hole and tossed in a flower. Then, holding her head high, Hermione slipped her hand into Ron's in a sisterly gesture. Together, the two walked away, leaving nothing behind but Hermione's flower.  
  
A lily.  
  
  
  
Hermione took a deep breath and checked the parchment she held in her hand one more time. Yes, she was definitely at the right address--number 4 Privet Drive. Now all she had to do was muster up the courage to ring the doorbell.  
  
How and why she had been roped into delivering a personal message to the Dursleys. Surely they knew that their nephew had died and if they didn't, they had to have been told. In fact, Hermione was pretty sure that she'd seen someone who resembled Dudley Dursley, from the pictures Harry had shown her of him, at his funeral. But maybe that was just her eyes playing a trick on her mind.  
  
Taking one more deep breath, Hermione pushed the doorbell. Ding dong. Ding dong. It seemed to go on forever, and for a fleeting moment Hermione thought about whether she should just turn and run and pretend that she had not been able to find the Dursleys' house. That thought quickly left her mind, of course, because the door opened and a slightly pudgy boy about her age could be seen.  
  
"We don't want any," he said hastily, attempting to close the door in Hermione's face. Had her foot not been in the way, he would have succeeded, too.  
  
Hermione smiled brightly at him. "Dreadfully sorry for bothering you, but is this the Dursley residence?" she asked in a sickeningly sweet voice. Once the boy nodded, Hermione's smile faltered. It was almost, but not quite, a conscious thought that occurred to her--she didn't want it to be the Dursley residence. "I need to speak with a--" (She checked her parchment.) "--Vernon and Petunia Dursley, please."  
  
"Why?" There was an air of suspicion in the boy's voice.  
  
"Because I have a very important matter concerning Harry Potter that needs to be discussed with them." Hermione pursed her lips and made sure her foot was in the way. She expected the boy to try to slam the door again, but he didn't. He completely shocked her and opened the door wide, gesturing for her to come inside.  
  
He extended his hand. "I'm Dudley Dursley."  
  
Hermione shook his hand and almost grimaced when she touched his cold, sweaty flesh. "Nice to meet you," she said. "Uh, Vernon and Petunia, please?" When he turned around to fetch them, she quickly wiped her palm on her trousers.  
  
It was just a few moments later that Hermione was sitting on the couch in the Dursleys' living room, sipping de-caf coffee and listening to the somewhat heartfelt stories of Petunia's about when Harry was just a baby. Vernon pitched in, saying how awfully he and Petunia had treated Harry during his short seventeen years of life and how he wished he could take their actions back. (Dudley mentioned that he had never let Harry play with his toys, and he was sorry for that now that he saw how the two of them could have gotten along.)  
  
"What's your name again, dear?" Petunia asked, refilling Hermione's cup with coffee.  
  
"Hermione Granger. I was Harry's girlfriend. We were planning to get married after graduation, but I guess our plans won't happen now." She smiled dryly.  
  
"I'm sorry," Petunia said honestly, patting Hermione's knee. "We heard about Harry's death, but didn't think much of it. Dudley actually begged to go to the funeral, and since we assumed he just wanted to spit on the boy's grave, we allowed him. Little did we know that attending Harry's funeral would completely turn his, and our, viewpoints around..."  
  
Vernon elaborated, "Dudley came home with this grief-stricken look on his face. Petunia asked him what was wrong, and he went into this tirade about how we should have gotten to know more about Harry while he was alive. Of course, Petunia and I thought it to be absolutely laughable, but Dudley then produced a recording of that man's--"  
  
"Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione supplied.  
  
"Yes, I suppose. Anyway, Dudley produced a recording of his speech about Harry's remarkable achievements, and that's what made us see our wrong."  
  
Petunia added sheepishly, "That threatening note from Sirius Black, was it, had something to do with it, too."  
  
After a little more coffee and another short conversation, Hermione stood to leave. Before she left, however, Petunia bustled away into her bedroom and returned with a white-gold locket. "This was Lily's--Harry's mother. The boy had it in his bassinet on our doorstep the night he arrived her. I assume Lily wanted him to have it so that he could give it to someone special later in life. You were obviously special to him, so I think you should have it."  
  
Hermione gasped but allowed Petunia to clasp the locket around her neck.  
  
"It looks exquisite."  
  
Later that night, in her flat, Hermione opened the heart-shaped locket. Inside was a picture of a beautiful redheaded woman, holding a baby-version of Harry.  
  
"Who knew the Dursleys could actually be so civil?" Hermione breathed, rolling onto her stomach and falling asleep.  
  
  
  
It was two years later, the anniversary of Voldemort's downfall--as well as her love's. Nineteen-year-old Hermione knelt beside of the grave and touched the words engraved on the tombstone: Harry Potter. So famous a name that had been uttered by everyone of her generation and then some. He had saved many lives to come, but now he was gone.  
  
Hermione had accepted his fate the previous year and had taken the advice close friends to move on with her life. Deep in her heart, she knew Harry wanted her to be happy and didn't want her to cry over him any longer. It felt right.  
  
She placed a lily on the grave, then stood up and took the hand of Ron Weasley, but this time, it was in much more than a sisterly gesture.  
  
"I still miss him," Hermione whispered, fingering the locket around her neck.  
  
"I think we will always miss him, honey," Ron replied, kissing her neck.  
  
Hermione nodded. She wrapped her arms around Ron, knowing that Harry was with his mother and father and they were all probably very happy to be reunited. "I love you, Harry. You'll always have a special place full of love in my heart," she said to the grave. Tears sprung to her eyes as she and Ron began to walk away. "The Boy Who Lived is dead..." 


End file.
